Her Muse
by thatssupersketch
Summary: Clarke can't help but frequent the bar where her favorite subject works, it's too tempting. / Bellamy pays more attention to the girl who sits in the corner booth than he should.
1. the artist

She admires the curve of his back, the grace with which he moves, and the ease he carries himself with as he floats around the bar as if he owned the place. Unfortunately, he didn't or else it wouldn't have taken Clarke so long to figure out when he would be here, when his shifts were. The effort was worth the result, and Clarke spent many a night sitting in her favorite spot in the bar, a booth, near the back. She could see the bar just fine, but she wasn't in any danger of being noticed by the object of her attention.

Today he wore a plain white button down, and had a black towel slung haphazardly across his right shoulder. Clarke admired the contrast, her fingers itching to draw the scene. But Clarke wouldn't be caught dead drawing him in the middle of the bar, even if there was a slim chance of him-or anyone -noticing her in the back. She tucks the image into the back of her head, promising herself she'll do a sketch later.

He was one of her favorite subjects. His hands, his face, his back…anything. He was intriguing for reasons Clarke couldn't begin to understand. His face always held an air of mystery, as if there was some sort of mental wall repressing his emotions from being shown on his face. But his eyes, oh, his eyes. No matter how steely he could make his face, or look impassive, his eyes were always bright. Clarke had always had a thing for brown eyes, but this was different. He wasn't just aesthetic, his eyes captivated her. Deep brown that seemed to be endless. She knew it was dumb, and cliché, but she could get lost in those eyes.

When she gets home that night, her hands immediately reach for her sketchbook. She drew him, again, and she realized that drawing him was soothing. It felt right, it felt natural. Rough charcoal strokes created his back, smooth, small strokes for his face. He was rough on the outside, maybe, but when you looked closer, he was beautiful.

Clarke didn't use that word about a subject lightly. Artists always critique everything, even if it's their best friend. There's always some flaw, something off. He wasn't perfect, by any means, but he was beautiful.

And those freckles.

If Clarke had ever found a muse before, it was completely diminished in the presence of him.

She knew this wasn't healthy, she knew it was a bit odd. She tried to convince herself that it was merely a phase, just a subject she would soon get over.

If only she knew.

Months passed, and Clarke still would find herself at that little hole in the wall bar every week. It was a safe haven, almost, because she could be in his presence without disturbing the scene. But it began to get harder and harder not to approach him, and one day, Clarke gave into the temptation.

She abandons her booth in the back and slips into one of the barstools, a few people down from where he was serving. It was getting late, and he was the only one left behind the bar. She was one of the few people left in the bar.

Clarke sighs. _It's now or never._

As if on cue, he turns to her and gives her a smile that is the first smile she has seen him give all night that looks at least a bit genuine. "I'll be with you in just a second."

As he turns, Clarke frowns down at her clothes. Not thinking she would approach him tonight, or ever, she's still clad in some paint splattered jeans and a plaid shirt. But before she could further critique her poor wardrobe choices for the day he has turned back around, hands on the counter, leaning in towards her.

"What can I get you?" he offers easily, looking at her with a half grin on his face.

"Um," Clarke taps her chin. "A screwdriver. Yeah, that sounds good."

He nods at her and turns back to the alcohol, and a bit of disappointment resides in the corner of Clarke's brain. She had imagined this so many ways, but never this.

"Decided to move spots today, huh?" He spares her a glance over his (well toned) shoulder.

"Uh," Clarke blinks. "Yeah? How did you…"

He offers her the drink, but this time, he doesn't turn away. "You're always there. What made you so brave today, princess?" Clarke has heard this nickname multiple times because of the social status she grew up with, but when he says it, she senses no malice in his words. It's a welcome change.

If he's going to be bold, so is she. Screw it.

"I wanted to learn your name."

"Oh?" he says with a smile. "Funny, I was thinking the same thing."

She looks at him with surprise and he leans farther forward. "See, I had convinced myself tonight would finally be the night, that I would go over to the corner booth and ask the girl with the paint smeared hands what her name was."

Her body betrays her as she proceeds to turn beet red. "I've always liked artists," he says , searching her eyes. He's close enough to her that she could count his freckles, which she is currently trying really, really hard not to do.

"Well then," Clarke says with a smile, "You're in luck."

He grins back at her, which provokes her to do something, ask something even more bold-

"Have you ever been drawn?"

He slowly shakes his head, the grin never leaving his face.

"Would you like to be?"

He slings the towel back over his shoulder, and sticks out his hand. (She loves his hands.) "You just found yourself a willing participant."

"I'm Clarke, by the way," she says, taking his hand, his large, tan hand, engulfing her small, pale one. Which, admittedly, does still have a bit of oil paint on it.

"Bellamy. I've been looking forward to meeting you, princess."


	2. the bartender

He watches her from behind the bar. It's like she doesn't even notice him. Every time he looks over at her (it happens more often than he'd like to admit) she's either looking around or looking into her drink. Which, by the way, she never comes to ask him for. Not once, out of all the times she's been here, has she ever come to the bar for a drink. And she comes here a lot. Not that would Bellamy would know, but…

One of the first times she came here, she was toting a small brown notebook. Ever the curious fellow, he contemplated going to talk to her and asking to satisfy his curiosity, nothing more, but she would always leave before his shift was over. But she was there, every week, during his shift. It's like a higher power wanted to kill him with intrigue.

The more she comes, the more Bellamy finds himself looking forward to those shifts, even if all he can do is sense her presence from across the room. He can't explain the effect it has on him- she's just light. Warm. Like a campfire in the dusk of a fall day. It's comforting, in a way.

She never brings the small book again, and he is more disappointed than he feels he should be.

But the girl comes in some days, blonde hair wrangled up into a tangle of curls, with bits of paint on her face, her hands, her pants. He slowly but surely understands that she must be an artist. The little brown book must've been her sketchbook.

He catches himself daydreaming about it, about her during his afternoon shift. What did she paint? What inspired her? He had always liked artists, liked their perspective of the world. Calculating, but still able to find beauty among the ruins.

He found he liked her most on those days, the ones where she was covered in paint and unruly. He felt like he knew her. She felt like an anchor, sitting in the corner of the room, slow and steady, but a light in the darkness.

Bellamy didn't like the fact that he had never talked to her before, but can't bring himself to interrupt her own little world in the corner booth. He decides it's best for him to observe from afar at first.

She reminds him of a princess. He can't help but refer to her as princess in his head from then on, because it's been months and he still doesn't know the girl's name. She carries herself with the air of a princess, but it isn't a social climbing sort of air. It's real, it's genuine. The way she smiles at the waitress. He loves the way she smiles, it reaches her eyes and they seem to be an even more vibrant blue than before, if such a thing was even possible.

She's even beautiful to him on the days where she doesn't smile, just stares moodily out the window.

This is the point where Bellamy realizes that he's screwed. He finds himself thinking about her when he doesn't see her, worrying when she doesn't appear during his shift.

And he doesn't even know her name.

He tries, oh, he tries to give himself a pep talk to go and talk to her. _Today, Bellamy. On your next break, Bellamy. Tonight, Bellamy._ It never works, unfortunately. How can a short little blonde have such an effect on him as to knock him down a few pegs?

The week she's gone is the absolute worst. Missing one of his shift days, yeah, that's normal. Missing a week isn't. He tries but fails to be unaffected. The corner booth haunts him as worries press into his mind about the fact that she may never come back. He never knew her. Didn't even know her name.

When she returns the next week, he lets out a breath that he didn't know he's been holding for the past week. Things felt right again, everything fell back into the swing of how it was before, but today was starting to rub on his nerves. He couldn't seem to smile genuinely at a customer, and the princess stayed in her castle, like always, and seemed to taunt him with the fact he couldn't just go talk to her. Bellamy tells himself he'll talk to her tonight if she doesn't leave before his shift ends. He busies himself with a customer's drink, and is utterly shocked at the revelation that the girl he'd been staring at not five minutes ago is sitting in front of him on a barstool.

Realizing he has the unfortunate luck of not finishing his latter customer's drink he says, "I'll be with you in just a second." He tries to contain the grin that creeps onto his face, and hurriedly finishes the drink.

Bellamy turns back to the blonde with a smile. "What can I get you?"

She taps her chin. "Um, a screwdriver. Yeah, that sounds good."

And with that, he nods and proceeds to make the best screwdriver he's ever made in his entire life. Deciding to test the waters, he asks over his shoulder, "Decided to move spots today, huh?"

He can't see a whole lot over his shoulder, but you'd have to be blind not to see the red appear in her cheeks. She looks at him questioningly. "Uh, yeah? How did you…" she trails off, unsure of how to finish.

Rather than answering at first, he slides her drink towards her. He admits, with a bit of hesitation, "You're always there. What made you so brave today, princess?" The nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, and he almost regrets it. It adds an air of familiarity to their conversation, which he thought might embarrass her, but it seems to do the same.

He sees her eyes flash with determination before they meet his. "I wanted to learn your name."

This time, he can't even hold back the grin. "Funny, I was thinking the same thing."

She looks surprised again, and he wonders why he even has to tell her. Was she so caught up in her own little world she couldn't see him looking at her? Watching her? He decides to tell her the truth anyways.

"See, I had convinced myself tonight would finally be the night, that I would go over to the corner booth and ask the girl with the paint smeared hands what her name was."

Third time's a charm, princess blushes again. He really shouldn't enjoy that as much as he does, especially knowing he's the one to make her blush.

He leans forward, testing the boundaries, searching her eyes. "I've always liked artists," he says slowly, surely, his eyes flickering down to her small hands, where sure enough, there lies a bit of dried paint. He doesn't mind, he thinks it's endearing.

"Well then," she says, startling him out of his reverie. "You're in luck."

He grins in response, not sure what to expect from this girl. She's been full of surprises tonight.

"Have you ever been drawn?" she asks. The grin doesn't leave his face, as he shakes his head no. Come to think of it, he hadn't stopped smiling since she came over here. Go figure.

"Would you like to be?" she asks again, and Bellamy throws his bartending towel over his shoulder, and offers the petite blonde his hand.

"You just found yourself a willing participant."

She takes his hand, her small one being swallowed by his. "I'm Clarke, by the way."

He can't stop smiling. "Bellamy. I've been looking forward to meeting you, princess."


End file.
